


people are the same today as they used to be

by darthjamtart



Series: Criminal Minds IN SPACE [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Aaron Hotchner and his crew investigate crime on America’s space colonies. Or, Criminal Minds IN SPACE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	people are the same today as they used to be

**Author's Note:**

> This story was created for the Big Bang Mixup on LJ, for the "Space Girl" mix by poisontaster. Poisontaster, thank you so much for creating an incredible, inspirational mix!
> 
> A million thanks to [brilligspoons](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brilligspoons/pseuds/brilligspoons), who practically held my hand through the whole story-writing process. And another million thanks to my writing group -- this story would be a total mess without you.

The summons from Admiral Strauss was not unexpected. Hotch handed the memo to Derek Morgan, his second-in-command, who snorted, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the trash.

“We knew this was coming,” Hotch said.

Morgan rolled his eyes. “She can’t break up the crew. We have the best solve rate in the agency. With the least expenditure of military force.”

“That’s the problem.” JJ crossed her arms, still leaning against the doorway of Hotch’s office. She’d brought Hotch the memo – a possible reminder, on Strauss’s part, that Hotch’s communications officer could be commandeered for such purposes. “Strauss _wants_ us to make a bigger scene. She thinks a few more explosions and a higher body count will keep the colonies in line.”

“Or start a war,” Hotch murmured. Morgan looked uneasy, but JJ nodded.

“Either way, she wins.” JJ shifted forward a step, closing the door behind her. Behavioral Analysis Unit headquarters occupied a fairly isolated wing of the American Interplanetary Intelligence Agency buildings at Quantico, but that was no reason to tempt fate. “Not all the planets are self-sufficient enough to warrant a full-blown revolt, but the independence movement is growing. A rebellion would be the perfect excuse for military intervention and the dissolution of the BAU.”

Morgan frowned. “Hotch, what are we gonna do?”

“Apparently,” Hotch said, glancing briefly at the waste bin with the crumpled memo, “I’m going to go see Admiral Strauss.”

The door was closed when he arrived, but Hotch could hear the occasional raised voice from inside. Admiral Strauss spent more time politicking than running the behavioral analysis units – what little was left of them, these days. With interplanetary colonial expansion on the rise, and the United Nations running more and more space stations, there were far too many public and private interests in play for Strauss to pay attention to the details. That was where Hotch and his crew worked best, though, when given the latitude to do so.

Strauss’s door opened, and Hotch stood quietly while an ambassador and two generals strode down the hall and around the corner to the elevators. He waited an extra moment, giving Strauss time to breathe between meetings, and then stepped inside.

“Captain Hotchner.”

Erin Strauss didn’t stand when he entered, but she did look up from her files to peer disapprovingly at him. Hotch resisted the urge to straighten his already perfectly-aligned tie and suit jacket. “Admiral Strauss,” he replied mildly.

“I’m assigning another agent to your crew,” Strauss informed him.

Well. It wasn’t the conversation Hotch was expecting, but he’d take it. “Do I have any say in the matter?”

“You do not.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Hotch began, and tightened his jaw when Strauss glared at him over her desk. “It’s my ship. My command.”

Strauss rose imperiously, straightening her arms, palms flat against the table. “It most certainly is not your ship, Aaron Hotchner. The USS _Quantico Star_ is owned and operated by the United States of America, and it can be taken from you as easily as your command, your rank, and your employment.”

As much as it galled him to admit it, Strauss was right. It was easy to forget that the ship wasn’t their home, as much time as they spent on it – home was houses and apartments around D.C. that they barely lived in, refrigerators full of spoiled milk and rotting produce, takeout containers with as much mold as leftovers. Hotch nodded, sharp and uneasy. “Who’s the agent?” he asked, and Strauss responded by handing him one of the file folders on her desk. Her smile was ominous.

He flipped open the file and tried not to grind his teeth. When he looked up at Strauss, she appeared far more smug than he was comfortable with. “You’re dismissed, Captain Hotchner,” she said. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought she sounded positively gleeful.

Morgan had gone, but JJ had a mission waiting when Hotch got back to his office. He flipped through the files quickly before handing them back. “Call the crew?” he asked, and JJ nodded.

“We can debrief on the ship,” she said. “Alleluia’s four days out, and we need to get control of the situation as quickly as possible.”

“Strauss assigned us a new agent,” Hotch told her. He was trying not to let anything slip, but JJ must have read something in his face, because her interested look sharpened into concern.

“Dead weight?” she asked. Wordlessly, Hotch handed over the file Strauss had given him. JJ let out a low whistle. “Not dead weight, then,” she said.

“No, but I’d prefer anyone spying on Strauss’s behalf to be at least somewhat incompetent,” Hotch said, drily. JJ grinned at him.

“Tough shit, captain.”

***

Hotch was just leaving his office when he was intercepted. “Not now, Dave,” he said, moving to step around the sudden impediment. David Rossi, only slightly broader in the shoulders but much stockier from years of semi-retirement, blocked him easily.

“Is that any way to greet your oldest friend?” Rossi asked. “Not ‘how are you, Dave?’ or ‘nice to see you, Dave’ – it’s nice to see you, by the way, Aaron. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

Rossi beamed at him. “You’re welcome.”

“I was being sarcastic,” Hotch informed him, and Rossi snorted.

“Play to your strengths, next time.”

Hotch eyed the exit, past Rossi’s left shoulder. “Is there a point to this?” he asked. Rossi straightened, suddenly serious.

“Yeah. I hear you have a few empty rooms on that boat they made you captain of.”

“It’s a government vessel, Dave, not a cruise ship.”

Rossi spread his arms. “Hey. You know me. I was a good agent. And it looks like you could use the help.”

Hotch waited him out, staring until Rossi started to fidget.

“Fine,” Rossi spat out, eventually. “My soon-to-be ex-wife is being a pain in my ass and I need to get off the planet for a while.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Which ex-wife would this be?”

“Three,” Rossi gritted out. Hotch waited, eyebrow lifting ever-so-slightly higher, and Rossi exploded. “Come on, Aaron, tell me you can’t use the company. It’s gotta be like working with a bunch of infants, since Gideon left. Has the skinny one even hit puberty yet?”

“Doctor Reid is twenty- _six_ ,” Hotch informed him, but his eyes were sparkling.

“Oh, well, excuuuuuuse me!” Rossi snapped back. Hotch laughed.

“You packed?” Hotch asked. “We break atmo in two hours.”

Rossi nodded. “I’ll be there.”

***

Penelope Garcia, the _Star_ ’s pilot, was already settled into the bridge by the time Hotch made it to the ship. He was cutting it close, but he’d needed time to call Jack’s boarding school, leave a message for his son and let them know he’d be off-planet for the next couple weeks. Haley would have objected to sending their son to boarding school so young, but Haley had been gone for over a year, and Hotch had few options in her absence. Jack would be turning ten next month, and Hotch could only hope he’d be planet-side for the event.

JJ raised a questioning eyebrow when Rossi stepped onto the ship behind him, but Hotch shook his head. Later. “Our new agent?” he asked, and JJ jerked her head toward the corridor behind her.

“I put her in Elle’s old room.”

“Good,” Hotch said. “Rossi can take Gideon’s, then.” He turned to Rossi, who grimaced.

“I remember where it is. Don’t forget, Aaron, I served on this ship before you.” Rossi kicked the doorframe they’d just walked through, less gently than Hotch would have liked. “I can’t believe this bucket still flies.”

“I heard that!” Garcia’s offended voice echoed down to them from the bridge, and Rossi looked startled. JJ grinned.

“Get used to it,” JJ suggested. “Garcia hears everything.”

“And don’t you forget it, sugar,” Garcia called, tartly, and Rossi stared at Hotch.

“ _Sugar?_ ” Rossi mouthed in disbelief.

“We debrief in the conference room in one hour,” Hotch said, ignoring him. “You might want to stow your gear and strap in for take-off, first.”

As if on cue, Garcia’s voice came through crisp and clear on the ship’s com. “Ready to break atmo on your command, captain. Everyone else is good to go.”

Hotch pressed the seat release on the wall, and a few panels flipped around to reveal additional seats for take-off and landing. “Buckle up,” he said, leading by example. Rossi rolled his eyes, but claimed a seat and fumbled with the straps until they were mostly in place, tucking his duffel bag into the elasticized mesh beneath the seat. JJ, more efficient than both of them, watched wide-eyed from her seat as Rossi pulled a flask from his pocket. “Is that really necessary, Dave?” Hotch asked.

“It really is,” Rossi said cheerfully. He raised the flask in a mock-salute. “See you in free-fall.”

“Take us out, Garcia,” Hotch said, and the roar of the engines drowned out Rossi’s string of profanities as the planet dropped away beneath their feet.

***

The artificial gravity came on as soon as they broke atmo, but that was more than enough time for Rossi to turn an unhealthy shade of greenish-white. “Jesus, I forgot how much I hate that,” Rossi muttered. He eyed the flask suspiciously, but apparently decided it was doing more good than harm, and swallowed another mouthful.

“Conference room,” Hotch reminded him, and Rossi rolled his eyes.

“I still have twenty minutes to settle in before I start earning my keep,” Rossi retorted. He grabbed his duffel and shoved the seat back into the wall. JJ winced, folding her own seat back with exaggerated care. Hotch, his own seat safely in place, went to gather the rest of his crew.

He checked on Garcia first, and was unsurprised to find Morgan on the bridge with her, leaning over her chair to watch the flickering star charts on the console. “Sir,” Garcia greeted him, and Hotch nodded back.

“Garcia. Status?”

“We’re logged on a clear flight route out to space station Io 9,” Garcia told him – no surprises there, since Io 9 was the closest of the interplanetary space stations, and their usual stopover on longer or consecutive missions. “After that, we’re in international waters for a day,” Garcia continued. “Alleluia is pretty isolated, even by colonial standards.”

“Interplanetary space, not international waters,” Hotch reminded her, gently, but Garcia just grinned back, unabashed.

“Potayto, potahto, cap,” Garcia said. Morgan chuckled.

“We’re debriefing in fifteen,” Hotch reminded them. Garcia tossed him a messy salute, but Morgan straightened, ready to follow him out.

“Don’t miss me too much, sexy mama,” Morgan threw over his shoulder as they exited the bridge.

“You know I’m always watching you, hot stuff!” Garcia yelled after them, and Hotch stifled a sigh.

“That’s what worries me,” Hotch muttered to himself, and led the way down the central corridor to the mess hall.

Spencer Reid was, as expected, hunched over the coffee pot, anxiously waiting for the drip to finish so he could pour himself a cup. Six months ago, Morgan might have cracked a joke about Reid’s caffeine addiction, but now he just elbowed Reid out of the way and pulled an extra thermos out of the cupboard. “You make enough to share?” Morgan asked, and Reid nodded.

“Did you know?” Reid started, and Morgan groaned in mock-dismay. 

“Please don’t tell us the complete cultural and economic history of the coffee beans, pretty boy. Not until I’ve had my first cup.”

Reid scowled, but obediently waited while Morgan poured himself a thermos, as well as mugs for Hotch and Rossi, who’d wandered in just behind them. Morgan nodded at Reid, taking his first sip, and his surprised spluttering nearly drowned out Reid’s continuation: “I was going to tell you, using the recommended amount of coffee yields weak results, which is why I quadrupled the coffee in the coffee-to-water ratio.”

Rossi looked intrigued, but Hotch opted to water down his mug. “What, you don’t like heart attacks?” Rossi whispered, taking a swig of undiluted coffee. Hotch narrowly missed being hit by the spray when Rossi immediately spat it back out. “Jesus, what is this? Paint thinner?”

“It’s _coffee_!” Reid insisted over Morgan’s laughter.

“It’s what the government tries to pass off as coffee,” JJ said from the doorway. “Garcia keeps a stash of the good stuff somewhere on board, but you’re a better man than I if you can find it.” She jerked her chin toward the corridor behind her. “New agent’s waiting in the conference room, captain.”

Hotch nodded. “Thanks, JJ.”

Morgan perked up. “Another new agent? So this guy’s what, a stowaway?” he asked, gesturing at Rossi. Rossi looked flattered.

“Rossi’s a...consultant,” Hotch replied. Rossi snorted.

“Refugee,” Rossi corrected.

“Are you comparing your ex-wife to an oppressive nation with living conditions that violate basic human rights?” Hotch asked.

“If the shoe fits.”

“Gentlemen,” JJ cut in. “If you’re done hashing out the details of who pulled whose pigtails behind the bleachers, I’ve got a mission to brief you on in the conference room.”

Rossi inclined his head slightly. “After you,” he offered. JJ nodded back, turning, and Reid bounded through the doorway after her, having just downed half a thermos of his own super-strong coffee. Hotch paused in the corridor, watching Rossi trail after JJ and Reid.

“I’m right behind you, Hotch,” Morgan assured him from the mess hall’s sink, where he was incrementally watering down his coffee, and Hotch headed down to the conference room.

The new agent was already seated, quiet and still, in a seat that partially faced the door and partially faced the presentation screen in one wall. Reid was also seated, next to JJ, in the seats that left their backs to the presentation screen, and Rossi had apparently decided the chairs were not to his liking, and was leaning against the wall just inside the door. Hotch took the seat with his back to the door, and so he heard Morgan’s entrance without seeing his face, a few quick steps followed by an explosive, “What’s _she_ doing here?”

Hotch was, however, perfectly positioned to watch the new agent’s reaction. Her face didn’t change expression, but if it was possible, she went even more still.

“Sit down, Morgan,” Hotch ordered without turning around.

Morgan walked partway around the table to stand between Hotch and the new agent, facing Hotch. He looked incredulous. “Hotch, does Strauss seriously expect us to work with Ian Doyle’s _whore_?”

“I prefer ‘Interplanetary Counterterrorism’s whore,’ actually,” the new agent piped up from behind him.

“Agent Prentiss is your shipmate, and yes, _I_ expect you to work with her,” Hotch replied to Morgan. “Take a seat. We have a mission to go over.” Without waiting to see if Morgan obeyed his command, Hotch swiveled in his chair to face the presentation screen. He gave JJ a curt nod, which she returned, eyes troubled.

Rising from her seat, JJ clicked the screen on and started talking over the images. “This is Alleluia. It’s an American colony in the Omega sector, founded by a fundamentalist Christian sect and financed by a consortium of evangelical megachurches.”

Reid broke in, words rushed, “The founding group was one of the first to leave Earth when space colonies opened up, nearly a hundred years ago. Most of the early colonists settled on planets closer in, or at least in areas of space with other habitable planets, but the Sword of God, which was what they called their organization at that time, wanted as much distance as possible between Earth, which they deemed governed by corrupt and godless forces, and their new home on Alleluia. It’s actually an interesting name, ‘Sword of God’ – they believe in the literal ‘word of God,’ or ‘God’s word,’ which, if you remove the punctuation and spacing, is ‘Godsword,’ hence ‘Sword of—”

“Yes, thank you, Reid,” Hotch interrupted.

JJ directed their attention to the screen, which displayed an image of a fairly nondescript man, average height, mousy brown hair, and intense eyes. His arms were raised, and he wore a white shirt with no buttons or decoration. “This is Benjamin Cyrus, self-appointed Prophet of the Alleluia colony. He’s been the uncontested leader of Alleluia for a little over five years, but he came to the attention of America’s Interplanetary Intelligence Agency only six months ago, when he started importing supplies that could be used to create illegal weapons.”

“Don’t the colonies pretty much set their own rules about what guns are and aren’t illegal?” Morgan asked. “I mean, a hunting rifle isn’t gonna cut it on some of these frontier planets.”

“We’re not talking handgun versus semi-automatic, babycakes,” Garcia piped in, over the intercom. The presentation screen flickered as Garcia switched the view from Cyrus to a supply manifest. Reid’s eyes widened, glancing over the itemized list.

“That’s most of what you’d need to make a bomb that could take out half a _planet_. Minus a few key components, but if Cyrus is going through the black market—”

“Most of this _is_ through the black market,” JJ interrupted Reid this time. “And this is just what the IIA has managed to track. If he’s slipped the other components through under our radar, he could already have everything he needs to assemble the bomb.”

“Do we know who he’d be targeting?” Morgan asked.

“Ay, there’s the rub,” Garcia replied.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Hotch said. He surveyed the room, meeting everyone’s eyes. “IIA already has military ships on standby, but even at the fringes of colonized space, there’s just too much traffic – merchant and passenger ships, smugglers, support freighters, and government vessels from half a dozen other nations – for IIA to know for sure how and when Cyrus moves the bomb off Alleluia.”

“You want to send in undercover agents?” Rossi asked from behind him. “To a Christian fundamentalist colony with at least two generations of inbreeding?”

Morgan looked uneasy. “That’s assuming we make it in time. Alleluia’s still almost four days out at full burn. Why didn’t they send us out sooner?”

JJ scowled slightly. “IIA didn’t have enough information to send anyone in before. These supply lists came through just hours ago.”

“So why not just raid the colony? Send in the troops, turn the place upside down and confiscate the raw materials?” Morgan frowned. “Isn’t that what Strauss likes to do anyway?”

“It would be a public relations disaster,” JJ replied. “Cyrus has spent his entire career advertising Alleluia as a haven for God’s children – the key word there being children. They don’t use birth control on Alleluia, and even Strauss doesn’t want to risk an open broadcast across all sectors of America’s heavily armed IIA troops scaring the hell out of a bunch of kids.”

“Given the political climate on Alleluia, it could also turn into a shoot-out,” Reid added.

Hotch nodded. “We’ll be posing as refugee fundamentalists from Earth. There’s been a steady trickle of immigrants ever since Alleluia was founded, mostly from similar churches, unhappy with what they view as increasing liberalism and godlessness in America’s government. I’ll need JJ on the ship, coordinating with Garcia on communications and monitoring any broadcasts from the planet.”

“Cyrus will most likely view other confident, middle-aged men as a threat,” Reid said, staring across the table at Hotch. “That means Agent Prentiss and I will have the best shot at being accepted in the main compound.”

Morgan’s brow creased in growing dismay. “Hotch, I don’t like this.”

Hotch ignored Morgan for the moment, looking past him to Agent Prentiss. “What do you think?” he asked. Emily Prentiss gazed back at him, seemingly serene.

“I’m a bit recognizable for undercover work, these days,” she said. “But that could work in our favor. Only a few agencies know I was undercover for Interplanetary Counterterrorism, so being spotted as an...associate of Ian Doyle’s might actually buy me points with Cyrus, if he’s looking to blow things up.”

Hotch rose. “We’ll meet again tomorrow at 0900 to discuss this further. For now, I want each of you to study everything we have on Alleluia, Cyrus, and the refugees. Garcia, how’s the traffic?”

“Just checked our flight route through international waters against the logs on Io 9. We’re all clear, cap.”

“Good,” Hotch said. Rossi led the retreat from the conference room, followed by JJ, Prentiss, and Morgan, who hesitated, catching Hotch’s eye and tilting his head slightly at Reid, who was still sipping his coffee and staring blankly at the presentation screen. Hotch nodded back, and Morgan left.

With the others gone, Hotch moved around the table to sit next to Reid, in JJ’s abandoned seat. “If you aren’t ready for this mission, I need you to tell me,” Hotch said quietly.

Reid’s mouth twisted in something like a grimace. He lifted his chin. If his hands trembled on the mostly-empty thermos, Hotch could pretend not to notice. “I’ve been cleared for field duty.”

Hotch studied him. “I trust you,” he said at last, and Reid’s gaze dropped momentarily before darting back up.

“And the new agent? Do you trust her?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Hotch asked mildly. Reid smiled faintly.

“Morgan doesn’t.”

Hotch’s lips twitched. “I’ll handle Morgan.”

***

Morgan was in the mess hall after the briefing, so Prentiss meandered through the main corridor until she found a more welcoming face. There was one extra seat next to Garcia’s on the bridge, and Prentiss glanced curiously around the small space: just the two chairs, the consoles, and a pile of brightly-colored throw pillows on the floor. The second chair was occupied by six bottles of nail polish and a feather boa, so Prentiss sat cross-legged on a fuzzy, hot pink throw pillow.

“I hear you’re an amazing pilot,” Prentiss said, after a while.

“Sweetie, I could fly this ship through the eye of a needle.” Garcia didn’t take her eyes off the screen in front of her, fingers flying rapidly over the console. “I mean, not literally, because that would be impossible, but I can provide you with anything short of a miracle, and sometimes I can deliver those, too.” She paused, and her gaze dropped to take in Prentiss among the pile of pillows. “I used to race,” she said, her voice slightly hushed. She smiled at the memory, and Prentiss couldn’t help but smile back. “Nothing _too_ illegal,” Garcia confided, and she sounded almost wistful.

“I bet on you,” Prentiss offered. “Back in the day. That _was_ illegal.”

Garcia’s smile blossomed into a full-blown grin. “Sugar, we are going to get along like a house on fire. Although hopefully with less of the burning and destruction, because that would be bad. What’s a better analogy?”

Prentiss tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. It was covered in glow-in-the-dark stickers. “At least _someone_ on this ship doesn’t mind me being here.”

“We don’t get that many transfers from Counterterrorism,” Garcia said. Prentiss looked over sharply.

“Am I your first?” At Garcia’s nod, her smile turned slightly wicked. “Don’t worry, I promise to be gentle.”

Garcia’s laughter filled the bridge, and Prentiss settled further down into the pillows. They flew in silence for a few minutes before Garcia hesitantly broached the question: “Your last assignment, Ian Doyle...”

“You know that saying, ‘killing for peace is like fucking for chastity’?” Prentiss waited for Garcia to nod before continuing in a rush. “Well, nobody ever said anything against fucking for peace.”

“Oh, honey, no one on this ship is judging you,” Garcia said, reaching out a hand. Prentiss snorted.

“You sure about that?”

***

The next few days passed in a flurry of meetings, throughout which Morgan managed to pointedly ignore Prentiss despite Hotch’s obvious disapproval. JJ offered Prentiss some sympathetic smiles, but was kept busy going over media strategy and communications relays with Garcia and Hotch. At the end of the second day, Prentiss tried cornering Reid in the mess hall, but he skirted by her, nearly spilling coffee all over both of them, and practically ran down the corridor to his bunk. Prentiss sighed, then shrugged and went to pull a packet of dry noodles from a storage cupboard.

“You didn’t drown his puppy or something, did you?” Rossi asked from the doorway.

Prentiss turned, raising an eyebrow. “What am I, a sociopath?”

Rossi sauntered the rest of the way into the mess hall and sprawled in a chair. Like the chairs in the conference room, all the mess hall seating was bolted to the floor, as was the table, so as to avoid chaos during free-fall. Rossi swiveled experimentally, then peered at the floor, looking disgruntled. “This chair is smaller than I remember it being,” he announced, and Prentiss stifled a snicker.

“Maybe your ass is bigger,” she suggested cheerfully.

Rossi’s mouth twitched with amusement, and he reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask. Unscrewing the top, he took a long swig and then offered it to Prentiss across the table.

“Maybe after dinner,” she said, adding hot water from a wall tap to the noodles and joining him at the table. “You want some noodles? They’re government-issue delicious.”

“You’d think they’d have improved the food since I left,” Rossi replied. “Don’t tell our captain, but I packed more food than clothes for this trip. _I_ don’t care if my suit is wrinkled, but Aaron might attack me with a steamer.”

“Think he’d do my closet?” Prentiss asked. “I forgot how little space you get on most covert ops. Sure, the ship is small enough to pass for any number of commercial runners, but then the government uses what little space we do have for weapons instead of food or people.”

“Gideon always said that our minds were our greatest weapons,” Reid offered from the doorway. Prentiss and Rossi both looked up, startled, and Reid’s mouth twisted. “Forgot the sugar,” he said. He hesitated, waiting for Prentiss to gesture expansively for him to enter, then avoided her gaze while he quickly located the sugar and dumped half the container into his thermos.

Prentiss darted a glance at Rossi, who shrugged back. “Stay and chat?” she asked cautiously, and Reid stilled, his hands clutching the thermos. 

“I need to finish some reading,” he said, still facing the wall. “We’ll be on-planet tomorrow. I want to make sure I know everything about Alleluia.” He turned, finally, and headed for the door.

“Don’t you think we should, I don’t know, talk a little before we go undercover together?” Prentiss called after him.

“Not particularly,” Reid shouted back, already out of sight.

Prentiss sagged in her chair. “Well, shit,” she said. Rossi offered her the flask again, and this time she took it, sipping briefly and then raising an eyebrow at him in appreciation. “How the hell am I supposed to get through this mission if no one trusts me?”

Rossi studied her. “You know the signals. We’ve been over every conceivable scenario at the meetings. Just do your best, and they’ll come around.”

Prentiss chewed her noodles glumly. “God, I hope so. But it’s not the conceivable scenarios that I’m worried about.”

Rossi reached for the flask. “Touchè.”

Garcia had made good time, and they reached Alleluia late the next morning. “All clear for landing,” Garcia’s sunny voice announced over the ship’s intercom. “Everyone strap in for free-fall!”

“I fucking hate free-fall,” Rossi muttered, reaching for the straps. JJ and Hotch checked in from the conference room, then Prentiss from her bunk, and, finally, Reid and Morgan in the mess hall. With everyone accounted for, Garcia turned off the artificial gravity and took them down.

Like all the settled planets, Alleluia’s gravity well was almost identical to Earth’s, but the climates varied. Alleluia was warmer on average, more desert than jungle, with only one easily habitable continent. The port outside the capital city of New Galilee was busy, and Garcia landed the _Quantico Star_ among a cluster of shuttles from larger ships that didn’t have atmo capabilities. Here and there were a few other small ships, merchant and passenger vessels, and a few that Garcia quickly identified as probable smugglers.

Alleluia was a dangerous run for certain types of smugglers – the conservative, religious inhabitants of New Galilee and its surrounding towns sometimes had medical needs that couldn’t be met on-planet, but after a doctor’s ship was bombed while planet-side, the medical runners started dropping in more covertly. The _Quantico Star_ was going in under the guise of a more generic smuggler, transport for hire rather than mission-oriented, selling bulk goods without the additional taxes and carrying a few passengers to pick up some extra profit. Their fake registration easily cleared with the port authorities.

Prentiss shouldered her bag, stepping off the ship and blinking in the sudden sunlight. They’d determined early on that splitting up offered the best chance of success, and Rossi was already deeply engaged in an argument with another smuggler over the going rate for lentils. Hotch was at the bus stop, eyeing the single dusty bench dubiously. He carried a briefcase and little else. “I’ll present myself to Cyrus as an auditor,” Hotch had told them at a briefing two days earlier. “Hopefully, he’ll be too busy watching me go over his taxes to worry about undercover agents.”

Morgan had quickly disappeared into the crowd, and Prentiss straightened her back and plunged ahead. Reid, clutching a duffle bag, started to follow and flinched back from the press of people. New Galilee was five miles out from the port, but Reid tilted his face to the ground and started walking.

“Spence,” JJ called from the ship, where she and Garcia were monitoring everyone via tracked comms, embedded in everyone’s ear. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d head over on foot, get a feel for the terrain,” Reid replied mildly. The desert stretched flat ahead of him, New Galilee a cluster of dots in the distance.

“I hope you’re wearing sunscreen,” Garcia muttered into the comm.

Back at the port, a bus pulled up in front of Hotch, and the driver stepped down heavily, stretching his legs and arching his back. “You headin’ to the city on business or pleasure?” the bus driver asked.

Hotch, starting to sweat in his dark suit, handed over the fare. “Business,” he replied, and slipped past the driver to climb onto the bus, which was unfortunately not air conditioned. He claimed a seat near the back anyway, sitting down to wait.

Morgan boarded a few minutes later, carrying some additional luggage. He was followed by a young woman holding a baby and clutching a toddler by the hand, and she thanked Morgan effusively as he loaded her suitcase into an overhead bin. A few small groups boarded, more families, and then Rossi, still arguing with a couple of smugglers. Prentiss was one of the last, and she tucked herself into a seat in the middle of the bus just as the engine shuddered to life. The bus lurched down the desert highway, passing Reid just over a mile outside the port.

New Galilee rose up around them quickly, a smattering of small houses leading into larger compounds. Most of the buildings were ranch-style, one story and built to spread sideways, not up. The city spiraled out from a central marketplace, a downtown district that was more of a town square than anything else, despite New Galilee’s nearly hundred thousand citizens. The current governor, a man named Jared Willoughby, had been elected with the ringing endorsement of Cyrus, and seemed to be figurehead rather than any real political power.

Last off the bus, Hotch watched Morgan and Prentiss disperse with the tourists, merchants, and immigrants, and then turned to enter City Hall. An IRS agent meeting with Governor Willoughby would come to Cyrus’s attention soon enough, giving the others a chance to settle in.

Prentiss lost track of her new crewmates almost immediately. She found herself shuffled from line to line of refugees, some clutching at families and baggage, some, like herself, alone. They filled out form after form after form – bureaucracy the one constant on every planet. _Name: Lauren Reynolds,_ she wrote. _Age: 36_. _Are you carrying any seeds, fruit, livestock, or other biological contaminants?_ The ecosystems of newly-developed planets weren’t necessarily fragile enough to be destroyed by a peach pit, although you’d never know that from the paperwork.

Waiting for an administrator in the Immigration and Customs Office to file their forms, Prentiss struck up a conversation with another refugee, the single mother Morgan had been helping on the bus, earlier. “My cousin wrote me,” the woman said, one arm clutching her baby and the other holding the end of a string she’d looped around the toddler’s wrist. “She said the work’s hard, but everyone pitches in, and there’s always someone around to watch the babies.” She rubbed her thumb over the pale strip of skin on her ring finger, but didn’t say anything about the missing ring. “I’m Jessa,” she told Prentiss, and Prentiss smiled, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Lauren.” Prentiss glanced away, where the toddler was tugging at the end of the string. On the other side of the room, Reid looked like he was trying to inveigle his way into a cluster of young male refugees who’d arrived together. “I heard Alleluia’s a good place for a fresh start.” When she looked back at Jessa, the woman nodded in understanding.

The room hushed suddenly, and Prentiss looked up to see Cyrus smiling benevolently from the doorway. “Welcome,” he called out, and he spread his arms, as if to embrace all of them at once. “You’ve had a long journey, but you’re home now. Come, enjoy the fruits of our Lord’s kindness, and share a meal with me.”

They followed him out into a sunny courtyard, where a long buffet was laid out, surrounded by simple picnic tables. Cyrus said grace, followed by a moment of silent prayer. Conversation picked up again, quiet at first, as they filled their plates and broke into small groups to eat. Prentiss helped Jessa carry plates piled with corn salad and grilled chicken to a table close to the one Reid had claimed with his new friends. As they ate, Cyrus moved from table to table, talking briefly with some refugees and longer with others, in no discernible pattern.

He greeted Jessa’s toddler, Matthew, by name, crouching in front of the boy to make eye contact and shake his hand, before rising smoothly to smile at Jessa and Prentiss and join them on the picnic bench. He slid in next to Prentiss, but spoke to Jessa first, “Jessa, the Lord has spoken to me of your faith, and the goodness of your soul.”

 _The Lord, or Jessa’s cousin and the pile of forms they’d filled out?_ Prentiss thought, but kept her face still. On the other side of the table, Jessa was beaming.

“There’s a place for you and your children in the Eastern Hall. Your cousin can show you, later,” Cyrus murmured, and Jessa nodded eagerly.

“I can work,” Jessa said, leaning forward. “I want to contribute.”

Cyrus’s smile widened. “I know you do,” he said, reaching out with a napkin to dab some spit off the baby’s face. “But let’s get you and your children settled first, all right?” He glanced across the courtyard, where a young man was rolling a large cooler out toward the buffet. “Looks like there’s some lemonade coming out. Would you like me to hold the baby – Mina, isn’t it? – while you and Matthew beat the rush?”

Jessa’s eyes were huge, but she handed the baby over instantly. “Thank you,” she breathed. “ _Thank you._ ”

Cyrus waited until Jessa was out of earshot before turning to Prentiss. “Lauren Reynolds,” he said, and he was still smiling, but Prentiss could see a warning in his eyes. “I trust you’re looking to leave your past behind you.”

Prentiss smiled back. “My past as Ian Doyle’s mistress, or as a weapons runner?”

“Both,” Cyrus said, and his smile dropped. He stared at her intently. “The people here are good, hardworking men and women. Now, I won’t say I disagreed with everything Doyle stood for, but that’s not the way we live on Alleluia.”

Prentiss studied him. “He said he’d marry me,” she said abruptly – hell, it was even true, no need to lie about this. She was the one who’d said no, but Cyrus didn’t need to know that. “Maybe I’m looking for a place where men keep their promises.”

Cyrus was silent for a long moment, but then he nodded. “You stick with us,” he said, and his smile was back as Jessa rejoined them with several cups of lemonade. “You’re on the right path, now. Welcome home.”

Prentiss took a deep breath as Cyrus rose swiftly to move on to the next picnic table. Jessa watched him go with shining eyes. “He’s the real thing, isn’t he?” Jessa said softly, still awe-struck. Prentiss narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, watching Cyrus interact with the young men at Reid’s table.

“You know,” she said, “I think he really is.”

She timed it carefully, gathering up the empty plates and cups to carry them to the bins by the buffet table, and walking back slowly so she could overhear the conversation at Reid’s table. Cyrus had sent the other men on brief errands, just as he had with Jessa, and Prentiss wanted to know what he was saying to skinny, unassuming Spencer Reid that required privacy.

“...not easy, but with faith and prayer, we’ll get you through this,” Cyrus was saying. Out of the corner of her eye, Prentiss could see that Reid was hunched over, paler than usual despite the sun. “The Lord showed me your struggle, and He showed me the way into the light.”

She couldn’t hear more without obviously lingering. Prentiss tried not to scowl in frustration.

Back at their picnic table, Jessa was gathering her few belongings and looping the string back around the toddler’s wrist. “You’ll be in Eastern Hall, with me and the kids,” Jessa said brightly. She pointed to where all the single women, with or without children, were clustered into a larger group. Looking around, Prentiss saw that the courtyard was emptying, the married couples already gone. Reid was following a line of men out another doorway.

The rest of the day was a steady bustle of settling in and filling out additional forms – her skills, her work experience, her level of education – most of the information of which had already been answered on the forms for Customs. Prentiss passed the time chatting with the other women in Eastern Hall, mostly newer refugees who’d been on Alleluia for a year or less.

“The ones who’ve been here longer are mostly married and living outside the central compound, now,” one of the women told her.

“We do get the occasional birther,” another woman chimed in, and Prentiss looked at her quizzically. “You know, one of the girls born here who’s unwed on her twenty-first – sometimes they come stay here for a bit, so they can meet other men in the compound, if none of the men around their homestead suited them.”

“It’s rare, but it does happen,” the first woman added. The two women exchanged a quick glance, and then they leaned in closer to Prentiss, dropping their voices. “Some of those girls? They end up _off-planet_.”

“Mary’s youngest – you met Mary; she does admin work over in Customs – her daughter took off last year, some smuggler with a cargo hold full of _condoms_ , of all things!”

Prentiss widened her eyes in feigned shock, trying to remember which of the modestly-dressed, older women working desk jobs might have been Mary. All the women working in Customs had been well over fifty. Prentiss had been hoping she’d be able to get an administrative job near Cyrus, giving her an excuse to interact with him more, and do some additional snooping around, but it turned out that the younger, fitter women were all assigned tasks like caring for livestock, churning butter, and gardening around the compound. Considering her experience with Doyle’s hydroponics systems, Prentiss would be surprised if they assigned her anything other than the gardens.

Dinner was a communal affair, men, women, and children pouring back into the central courtyard to gather at the picnic tables. After helping to wash the dishes, Prentiss slipped out to explore the gardens she’d be tending. She’d been staring at the same bed of herbs for nearly a minute when Reid found her.

“Making friends?” Prentiss asked, gesturing for him to sit. Reid hesitated, then folded himself down beside her.

“No one’s ever alone here,” he said, sounding faintly bewildered. “There’s no privacy.”

Prentiss nodded, covertly checking to make sure no one had followed them. “I think that’s the point,” she said. “It’s hard to get in trouble when you’re always being chaperoned.” Alleluia’s two moons were low on the horizon, a crescent and a gleaming circle. Even at night, here, it was never truly dark, but dusk shadowed their movements as they tapped their comm units back on.

“Garcia,” Reid said quietly. “Has everyone else checked in already?”

“You two are the last, sweetie,” Garcia said, voice crisp and bright in their ears. “Prentiss is with you, right? We’re tracking both of you in the middle of the city.”

“Yes, I’m with Reid,” Prentiss said, keeping her voice pitched low. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Rossi’s back on the ship with us,” JJ said. “Morgan’s staying at a visitors’ compound at the edge of the city, sort of like a bed and breakfast.”

“You get a tan yet, kid?” Morgan asked. Prentiss caught the edge of Reid’s smile.

“Not yet,” Reid replied.

“And I was just waiting for you to join us on the comms,” Hotch cut in. “I’ve been invited to stay at the Willoughby homestead. I got the impression that while they don’t exactly welcome government oversight, much less interference, they’re not trying to hide anything from me. The IRS would be thrilled if all audits went this well. Unfortunately, it looks like we need to adjust the profile.”

“Cyrus didn’t come by to see what an auditor wanted because he was with the refugees all day,” Reid said. “but I think you’re right.”

“If Cyrus isn’t responsible for the bomb components being smuggled onto Alleluia, who is?” JJ asked.

“I think we can safely rule out Jared Willoughby,” Hotch said. “He’s been telling me all day how humbled he is to be trusted with governing New Galilee. He spent forty minutes telling me about the latest crop expansion on the southern edge of the city. I’m not sure he even remembers there _are_ other planets out there.”

“We assumed it was Cyrus because all the smuggled materials lead back to the main compound, and his signature is on some of the forms,” JJ said.

“Cyrus is certainly charismatic enough to convince people to blow up a planet for him,” Prentiss said thoughtfully. “But I think he genuinely believes what he preaches. Dead people will never find, what was it, ‘the way into the light’ or make their way to Alleluia.” Reid shot her a sharp glance.

“So who on Alleluia would want to blow up a planet?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t know,” Hotch said. “But we’re running out of time to find out.”

Voices spilled out of the courtyard, and Prentiss exchanged a look with Reid. “We have to go,” she said.

“Check in when you can,” Hotch replied. “Reid,” he added, and there was an awkward pause over the comms.

“I’m fine,” Reid said, and reached up to turn off his comm unit. Prentiss followed suit, and they stared at the herb garden as a young couple walked by, their hands brushing together. When Prentiss looked over at Reid again, his hands were shaking. She opened her mouth to ask, and he cut her off. “Don’t. Just, don’t.”

Prentiss waited for the tremors to stop, then said, “Caffeine withdrawal’s really that bad, huh?”

Reid laughed, a little wildly, but it was better than she was expecting. “After Cyrus told me all about their Christ-approved detox program, one of the guys at my table offered me a hit. He came in on a smuggler’s ship, and still had some of his stash.”

“Sounds like not all the refugees are equally sincere about that fresh start,” Prentiss said mildly.

Reid’s fingers twitched. “Did Hotch tell you?”

“That you’re addicted to something other than coffee?” She shook her head. “No one had to tell me that.”

“Right,” Reid said. “Great. Cyrus knew just by looking at me, too.”

Prentiss spoke slowly. “I think, in his own way, Cyrus is as much a profiler as the rest of us. It’s part of what makes him so charismatic, his ability to read people and say exactly what they need to hear.”

They sat in semi-companionable silence for a minute. The young couple made a slow circuit of the gardens and headed back inside. “There’s apple crisp in the courtyard,” the girl called back to them, and then they were alone again.

“A few months ago, we were profiling a serial killer,” Reid said, eventually. The two moons were higher, now, illuminating Reid’s face as he stared across the garden. “The unsub, Tobias Hankel, had abducted multiple people from three different planets, dropping a body every time he found a new victim. He did generator repairs and general maintenance for several colonies, and he worked out of his own ship, which looked like any of a thousand other small smuggler vessels. JJ and I went out to interview him – we thought he was a witness, then. Hankel knocked us out. We didn’t – there wasn’t – JJ told the crew, when she woke up, but by then Hankel had loaded me into the cargo hold of his ship.”

Prentiss listened without responding, studying the growing shadows on Reid’s face.

“Hankel had dissociative identity disorder – it was why we hadn’t thought of him as a suspect; he didn’t fit the profile. When he was – the person we’d gone to interview, this shy, nervous guy who fixed generators and ate cookies with the locals at every colony – he would give me space dust.” Reid paused, glancing at Prentiss.

Space dust – not the cosmic particles, but the cheap, addictive drug used by people on nearly every planet. Including Alleluia, apparently. Prentiss had tried it once, when she was much younger. When she was willing to try pretty much anything. It hadn’t been what she was looking for, at the time.

“He didn’t want you to suffer,” Prentiss guessed. Reid hunched his shoulders.

“His alter ego did. The cargo hold smelled like—” He stopped abruptly, lips tightening. “He got sloppy, after a couple days. I managed to set a beacon for Garcia to track, and the crew came for me. Hankel opened the hatch on his shuttle into open space.”

“But by then you were already addicted.”

Reid nodded. “I thought the crew didn’t know, at first.”

“It must suck, working with a bunch of profilers,” Prentiss said quietly. Reid shrugged.

“It’s not so bad.” He offered her a hand up, which she accepted. One of her legs had fallen asleep, and she bit back a groan. “Are you going to tell Strauss?”

Prentiss snorted. “Yeah, right. Seems to me that this is Hotch’s ship, and Hotch’s crew. If Hotch thinks you’re fit to be here, who am I to say otherwise?”

Reid smiled. “Come on, I want some apple crisp.”

They each checked in the next morning from a different location: Prentiss, watching the sun rise from a window in the Eastern Hall, listened as Reid, Hotch, and Morgan reported their expected schedules for the day. Her own morning would be spent in the gardens and at bible study, with no real free time until after the communal lunch.

They discussed the new potential suspect pool over the comms in hushed tones. “If we knew the target, we could determine the motive,” JJ said, sounding frustrated.

“What if _Alleluia_ is the target?” Rossi asked, and everyone went silent, considering the idea.

“It would certainly explain why there’s been no chatter about moving the bomb off-planet,” Garcia said, after a moment.

“So we’re looking for someone who has a grudge against a colony full of mostly peaceful, Christ-loving, communists?” Morgan said. “Sounds more like Strauss than one of our usual unsubs.”

“Morgan,” Hotch said in a tone that was clearly intended to convey _not helpful_. 

“I’m just saying,” Morgan insisted. “Blowing up Alleluia and making it look like a terrorist plot would definitely give Strauss plenty of reasons to increase America’s military presence among the colonies.”

“You know I love a good conspiracy theory, hotcakes,” Garcia said. “But all roads lead back to Alleluia. Our unsub is _definitely_ planet-side, and it’s someone in the main compound.”

“All right,” Prentiss said. “The main compound is mostly recent refugees and staff. And it seems like everyone working here long-term is a true believer – Cyrus wants to make a good impression on the new arrivals. Sure, not all the refugees are here because they buy into Cyrus’s dream, but we’re kept pretty busy, adapting to life on Alleluia. I don’t think a refugee would have access to the supply manifests and bomb components.”

“So, what, we’re looking for a disgruntled resident?” Morgan asked.

“No, I think Prentiss is right,” Hotch said. “Someone bitter, middle-aged or older – a true believer who feels betrayed, maybe.”

“But the people who lose faith just leave,” Prentiss said.

“We’re not looking for someone who’s lost their faith,” Reid replied. “We’re looking for someone who believes so strongly that they think they need to blow up the planet.”

“Think about the promises Cyrus makes,” Hotch said. “A home for everyone, plenty of land to support a family, and a community without the temptation and sin of the old world. Cyrus speaks with the voice of the founding settlers, that’s how he established himself as Alleluia’s Prophet. We’re looking for someone who grew up here, someone born on Alleluia who grew up hearing those promises. Maybe an older man who never married, even though he was promised a wife.”

Prentiss frowned, a thought niggling at the back her mind. “I have to go,” she said.

“Check in when you can,” Hotch ordered, and she turned off her comm unit.

She spent the morning in the garden, working with another refugee who’d been on Alleluia for almost a year, and who was now engaged to a young man who’d been born in New Galilee. Prentiss listened to her talk about the wonderful community here, and the homestead they’d be moving to after they married, and the children they’d raise together, children who’d never have to know about the horrible things that happen on other planets.

After lunch, Prentiss slipped back to the Immigration and Customs Office.

Mary was a heavy-set, dour-faced woman with greying hair, dressed in the drab, ankle-length skirts that were ubiquitous on Alleluia. “Was there a problem with one of your forms?” she asked Prentiss, squinting at her over a rough-hewn wooden desk.

“No, I’m just not sure I want to stay,” Prentiss said. “Alleluia seems too good to be true.” She leaned forward, as though she were confiding in Mary. “I was hoping someone would tell me if it’s real. If I can finally settle down and start a family, without having to worry about all the sin and corruption that I’ve seen on other planets.”

Mary scowled at her. “It used to be. My grandfather was one of the first settlers, you know.”

Prentiss, under the guise of tucking her hair behind her ear, tapped her comm unit on. “So you grew up here,” she said encouragingly.

Mary smiled primly. “It was different, in those days. We lived righteous, God-fearing lives. There weren’t so many ships, then. Just the occasional cargo vessel from the Church back on Earth. Righteous settlers. None of this riff-raff.” She gave Prentiss a nasty look, then leaned in to hiss, “I know who you are!”

“I’m here for a fresh start,” Prentiss said earnestly. “I want to start a family. You raised a family in New Galilee, didn’t you?”

Mary sat back, eyes narrowed. “I did. Three boys and four girls.” She was scowling harder now.

“Emily, I’m sending your location to Morgan,” Garcia told her quietly, over the comm. “Do you need backup?”

“Mmm, and are they all married with families of their own, now?” Prentiss asked. Her comm unit pulsed in her ear as Garcia sent a signal to the crew, _all comm units, on_.

“Most of them,” Mary said. “My youngest was corrupted.” She smiled suddenly, scowl disappearing and eyes brightening. “Sin has found its way here, but it will not prevail,” she said dreamily. “Alleluia can still be saved.”

Certain now, Prentiss raised an eyebrow. “By blowing it up?”

Mary laughed. “We’ll be martyrs,” she said. “America’s godless military should be here any day now, looking for the bomb they think is meant for another planet. I’ll broadcast the raid and make it look like they fired on the planet. And God will raise Alleluia from the ashes, a haven once more for the righteous and the saved.” She lifted a rifle from beneath the desk, pointing it steadily at Prentiss. “You’ll be dead long before then, of course. Just another whore unsuited to life on Alleluia.” Mary shook her head sadly. “Get up.”

“Did you get all that?” Prentiss asked JJ and Garcia. Mary’s face crinkled in confusion.

“Loud and clear and on the record,” JJ replied. Prentiss remained seated, eyes on Mary’s face and not the gun pointed at Prentiss’s chest.

“It’s over, Mary,” she said gently. “There’s not going to be any raid. If you try to blow up the planet, my crew will broadcast the truth to all the colonies, to every planet and every space station. Instead of a planet full of martyrs, Alleluia will be a failed experiment. Is that really what you want?”

Mary’s chin trembled, but her hands were steady on the gun. There was no doubt that she knew how to use it.

“I know about your youngest daughter,” Prentiss said, keeping her voice low and coaxing. “She could still decide to come home.”

“It’s too late,” Mary said. Her gaze flickered the side, where Morgan was easing the door open slowly. “Stay back!”

“Prentiss, you got this?” Morgan asked, quiet, over the comm. She nodded slightly.

“We can find her for you, bring her back. Alleluia can still be a haven for her.” The gun dipped, and Prentiss continued, “She doesn’t have to know about this.”

Mary stared at her, eyes wild. The gun trembled in her hands. “I want _everyone_ to know what this place has turned into,” she hissed. “A haven for _whores_ and junkies! I see you all, I see you!” She lifted the gun again, no longer trembling, but Morgan shot first, from the open doorway.

“She alive?” he called, edging forward. Prentiss went behind the desk to check.

“She’ll make it,” she said.

“Medic’s on the way,” Hotch said, over the comm. The medic was followed by Hotch, Cyrus, the governor, and a couple dozen other Alleluia residents who’d heard the gunshot. It took several hours to sort everything out, and Prentiss was relieved when Hotch arrived to quietly and efficiently disentangle them from the local authorities.

They were escorted back to the port with a mixture of gratitude and _please leave_ that Reid indicated was somewhat typical for their cases. Prentiss lingered on the ground as the crew boarded the ship, and caught Morgan’s arm. “I didn’t thank you,” she said. Morgan stared at her quizzically.

“For what?” he asked.

“For taking the shot. You saved my life.”

Morgan shook his head. “We’re a crew, aren’t we?” He flashed her a grin, then sobered, straightening up. “I, uh, owe you an apology.”

Prentiss tilted her head, squinting into the sun. “Don’t worry about it. We’re a crew now, right?”

Morgan chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right. And hey, that was good work you did back there.” He stilled, looking thoughtful. “Alleluia wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Yeah,” Prentiss agreed. “I think the evangelical megachurches that kicked off the project were anticipating something more like the kingdom of a vengeful, capitalist god, not the commune of Christ’s love and forgiveness.”

Morgan’s smile had a hint of malice. “Might be interesting to see what happens when those churches show up here looking to rule their planet.” He headed up the steps, into the ship, and Prentiss followed. Hotch was waiting inside, and he closed the hatch behind them.

“Garcia, we’re all aboard,” Hotch called up the corridor, and Garcia’s voice echoed back down, instructing everyone to strap in for take-off.

Morgan disappeared into his bunk – like a lot of space travelers who didn’t acclimate well to free-fall, Morgan preferred to strap into his own bed, rather than a chair – and Prentiss claimed a seat across from Hotch in the corridor. “That was nicely handled,” Hotch murmured, as Garcia lit up the engines.

“The case?” Prentiss asked. Hotch’s lips twitched.

“Morgan.”

Prentiss grinned wryly at him. “Thanks.”

“Reid told me about the conversation you had, in the compound.” Hotch’s face was unreadable, and Prentiss felt her stomach drop as they headed into the sky.

“Oh?” she said, keeping her voice as noncommittal as possible.

“I’m not sure what Strauss had planned for you, after this mission, but I hope you’ll stay.”

Prentiss stared at him. “I was under the impression Strauss assigned me to the _Quantico Star_ against your wishes.”

“You’re a good agent,” Hotch said, not denying it.

They sat silently for a moment as the ship broke atmo. Prentiss frowned as her hair drifted around her face in free-fall, waiting for the artificial gravity to kick in. She’d spent her whole life traveling from planet to planet as her mother moved from one embassy to another, and she still forgot to pull her hair back for free-fall. “Can I think about it?” she asked.

Hotch nodded. “Take your time.” The artificial gravity came on, and they tucked the seats back into the wall.

Prentiss had just settled into a seat in the mess hall that evening when Reid and Morgan entered. She nodded a greeting, which Morgan returned, and Reid grinned at her before making a beeline for the coffee. “So are you staying on the Quanterprise?” Reid asked, and Prentiss nearly choked on a mouthful of government-issue noodle soup.

“Does Hotch know you call it that?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Hotch said from the doorway, and Morgan snickered.

“Hotch isn’t into old-school sci-fi.” Morgan swiveled the seat next to Prentiss so he could straddle it, chin resting on the seat back as he bit into a protein bar.

“I used to love _The Oracle Mission_ ,” Prentiss offered, and Reid’s eyes lit up. He threw himself into the seat across from her at the table.

“The series from the end of the 21st century? Oh, man, that show practically set the tone for the next fifty years of entertainment!” Reid exclaimed. “And it was right when the first space colonies were established, so it pretty much defined the vocabulary we use to talk about the universe we live in!”

“The special effects are kind of dated now, I guess,” Prentiss said.

Morgan shrugged. “Yeah, but the story’s still good.”

Prentiss slurped her noodles and glanced at the doorway. “Quanterprise, huh?” she said, and Hotch grimaced, but his eyes were amused. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I think I’ll stay.”

***

EPILOGUE

Prentiss had been on the ship for a little over a month when JJ sidled up to her in the mess and quietly asked if she had any tampons. 

“Oh, god, you too?” Prentiss asked. “I always thought that whole synchronization thing was a myth.”

JJ laughed. “It’s for Garcia, actually, but she’s in the middle of reprogramming our flight route – something about a ‘surprise asteroid field.’ She’ll be on the bridge for a while.”

They ended up joining Garcia, JJ leaning back against the corner console (the one with a tendency to overheat slightly), and Prentiss claiming the pillows on the floor. She’d been making hot chocolate in the mess when JJ found her, and she passed the thermos and extra mugs around, then offered a flask to doctor it. JJ declined, looking amused, and Garcia sniffed the flask curiously before recoiling, shaking her head vehemently.

“What _is_ that?” Garcia asked, and Prentiss quirked her lips.

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“Don’t want to know what?” Hotch asked from the doorway.

“The best tampon for a heavy flow,” Prentiss said, deadpan, and Garcia snorted hot chocolate through her nose. Hotch’s mouth twitched like he might actually smile.

The message came through on the comm system while Hotch was still standing there. Garcia tensed, scanning the display, then twisted abruptly to look at Hotch. “Cap, you want to see this.” She edged sideways, closer to Prentiss, giving Hotch room.

Hotch read the display quickly, then straightened, all traces of humor gone. “JJ,” he said. “There’s been on attack on the United States space station Lincoln. Half the station has been obliterated.

Prentiss blinked curiously at Garcia, who looked like she was trying not to cry, and at JJ, who had just paled considerably. “Isn’t that Counterterrorism’s jurisdiction?” she asked. The interplanetary space stations, such as Io 9, were operated by the United Nations, but every country with the resources to field space colonies also ran at least one national space station, with local police and military forces assigned to that sector. A small attack would be handled by the local authorities, but anything that wiped out half a space station, no matter the station’s affiliation, would be automatically assigned to Interplanetary Counterterrorism.

No one responded to Prentiss. JJ clutched the back of Garcia’s chair, leaning to pore over the short message. “Will?” she asked. “Is there anything about Will?”

Garcia sent a query out, then quickly sorted through the massive data stream it returned. “Detective LaMontagne, yes, on the list of missing personnel.”

“How fast can we get there?” Hotch asked.

“We’re twelve hours out,” Garcia tapped at a screen, then did something complicated with the flight route display. “Scratch that. Ten hours, cap.”

“Okay, can someone tell me what is going on?” Prentiss demanded.

“Will is JJ’s boyfriend,” Garcia said, scowling at the display, which was apparently unable to show her a flight route for under ten hours.

Hotch looked at JJ. “Garcia, let the others know; we’ll meet in the conference room in an hour. JJ – we’ll find him. He’ll be fine.”

JJ’s smile was a bit wobbly. “The sonuvabitch had better be,” she said. “Because I wasn’t planning on having this kid without him.”

The bridge went dead silent, and Prentiss took a long swig straight from the flask. “I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know that, right?”

JJ laughed, and it sounded only a little like a sob. “It’s still early. I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Garcia said. “Does Will know?”

JJ shook her head, and Hotch reached out to squeeze her arm gently. “He will,” he said, and it sounded like a promise, even if they all knew it was one he wouldn’t necessarily be able to keep.


End file.
